Under Pressure
by tofsla
Summary: Severus Snape returns to Hogwarts; the end of the first war. Genfic.
1. Chapter 1

_Notes: This two-part story is about Snape's life at Hogwarts under the academic year 1981-1982. This chapter covers 1981, and 1982 will be up shortly._

* * *

**1981**

The first staff meeting is quite frankly awful. What does one do with all of this, all of these people, Minerva McGonagall's expression all but screaming at him,_ I know what you did?_ Of course she bloody knows; she's part of Dumledore's secret club, a fact which would be painfully obvious even if she had not been there to see him swear his oaths. The rest of them are merely uncomfortable with the rumour of his recent adventures, he presumes; that no-one can possibly know what is hidden under his sleeve does not stop them from guessing. This he can take. It is not, after all, as though he cares so very much for them either. But that look is another thing entirely.

"I am certain that Severus will prove an invaluable addition to Hogwarts," Dumbledore is saying, voice dripping with benevolence. He suspects that his colleagues are being invited to take pity on him, but the only noticeable reaction is a slight quirk of McGonagall's eyebrow.

He nods stiffly in her direction. Blank, blank, blank; don't let them see you give a damn. Naturally you don't give a damn. You're simply here to-

Ah yes. Teach.

Socialising is not in the job description, and thank Merlin for small mercies.

* * *

For a few weeks things are very nearly restful. He does not need to think very hard to rearrange ingredients, check their freshness, inspect catalogues and fill out order forms; the work has a meditative quality to it. Aconite: flower (dried), root (dried), root (powdered). Asphodel: root (powdered), root (extract of). Bat wings, beatle eyes, belladonna, betony. A litany. He dictates notes to a charmed quill from the top of his ladder (what kind of moron is incapable of a decent preservation spell? a miracle one learnt anything), and notices after the first day that it has censored some of his more creative comments on the methods of his predecessor. One cannot, after all, have everything. But his mind is clearer than it has been since, well. Since. He can, for a day at a time, almost allow himself to believe that everything is, will be, fine. That he is where he wants to be and no-one is in danger.

Of course, the world does tend to intrude on that particular illusion, today in the form of McGonagall, resplendent in what appears to be a new variation on the theme of monstrous tartan robes.

"I would of course recommend," she says, in dubious tones, "that you allow yourself a break for dinner, Severus. You seem quite industrious, but it would be a shame if you were to collapse before you have even had a chance to meet your students."

His name sounds all wrong coming from her mouth. He has been Mister Snape, certainly; simply Snape, in sharp tones, inevitably. _You_, exclaimed in a trembling voice which does not even know what word to choose to describe him - naturally. But Severus? No. He would like to flinch. He would like to demand-

He does not demand.

"Such touching concern," he says - indifferently, he hopes, but he suspects that he sneers. Sneering implies that he is irritated. He is irritated - but it would be nice not to show it. "Has Dumbledore set you to be my minder?"

"I'm sure you're quite old enough to mind yourself," she says, tart. It is not, precisely, a denial. Of course not. "However, one must help one's colleagues however one can. I am quite certain," she says, "that you would do as much for me, were it noted," she says, "that I had missed dinner three nights in a row."

It is an art, the way she speaks; that carefully placed emphasis that can make one feel eleven years old again. Too grubby and too surly to pass muster. Too Slytherin, quite possibly. He scowls. Regrets scowling. Blank, blank, blank. "Of course."

Her eyes flick over him, note the dust that smudges his robes and his hands, his scuffed boots. No, certainly not fashionable. What is one meant to do with fashion in a storecupboard? Still, something about the whole does not meet with her approval, he feels.

"Quite. I trust we shall see you shortly."

It's too much suddenly, all he can do to count to ten as she leaves the room, smart heels clicking against paving stones, away, away; to hold himself rigid against hands that want to shake, against the wordless, violent sound that wants to force its way out of him.

In the silence she leaves in her wake he can snarl. Can hurl a jar containing a single sad piece of valerian root, long past usefulness, against the wall. It doesn't make him feel better, and as drowning himself in the showers would presumably be frowned upon he spells the worst of the dust from his robes and goes to dinner.

* * *

He finds a kind of peace in mechanical tasks that he could hardly have imagined a few years ago. He is assiduous in his cataloguing, in his quality controls. He cleans meticulously, to the irritation of the House Elves.

Somewhere he has a master, two masters. Somewhere there is a family- but he won't think about that. In the laboratory and the storeroom and the office there is nothing else; they are their own closed world.

When he is summoned, after two weeks reprieve, he is so shocked at the way the world outside can rip through his walls of calm that a jar of leeches slips from his fingers, shatters on the flagstones of the floor. He stares at it, uncomprehending; does not even remember to banish the mess before he sweeps from the room, from the castle.

Perhaps the bastard will have the courtesy to kill him this time and be done with it. The suspense is getting ridiculous.

* * *

Naturally, he does not die.

* * *

Too soon it's another day and the Great Hall is packed. It shouldn't be possible to feel so claustrophobic in such a large space, not looking down on it for the first time from above when one is used to being in the middle of the chaos at the long benches. But stuck between Dumbledore on his right and Pomona Sprout on his left, he manages it anyway.

The students jostle each other, all elbows, still too loud, too excited, even though to Severus it feels as though the grey weight of the war is trying to smother the castle - yelling to each other as though eight hours on a train just wasn't enough time for catching up.

And Dumbledore, unmoving as a statue of a benevolent Merlin beside him, is testing the edges of his mind. The intrusion always feels deceptively tentative, a question spoken softly, and if he relaxes for a second it will take him apart just the same. But Occlumency has become like breathing during the course of this last nightmarish year. It is generally not a matter of closing one's mind entirely, not before his keeper, although he can and would much prefer to do so; rather one must make strategic sacrifices. People like Dumbledore, people like- like the Dark Lord, curse him, want to know one's secrets. One must give them enough to make them believe that they have seen it all.

He has given them Lily, in fragments and half-truths. Love and regret and fixation. He has used her, again, to keep himself safe, and he has hated himself for it. But it is a minor infraction, in relative terms. And it has, at least, been enough. It has not made him more likeable - a lost cause if ever there was one - but it has allowed him to keep some fragment of himself, his conflicts and uncertainties and fears, hidden away.

What, he wonders, does Dumbledore conclude from this strategy?

"Oh, but Severus," Dumbledore murmurs, finally looking away from the hall below, a gentle smile on his lips, "it will not be so terrible as all that. Who knows," he says, damnably amused, "you may even enjoy yourself."

I disgust you, Severus thinks. You meant that more than anything else you've ever said to me, I would swear it. And now you can laugh and tell me to enjoy my medicine.

The memory of that night is sharp-edged and raw, for a quarter of a second it is almost too much to contain.

"I may," he manages. Allows himself a conscious touch of coolness, of open scepticism. Just this once, under the curious eyes of half the school, everyone old enough to remember him as a student wondering why he's here. (I heard from Potter that he's dark as anything- remember that time when- what's he- potions I guess- d'you think he'll hex us if- I bet- how he cried- pathetic git.)

The doors swing open for the arriving first years. The hat is laid out. And Severus, sick of everything before it has even started, slams shut every door that exists inside of him, makes himself a shell, nothing but a smooth surface for the world to slide off. To hell with whatever Dumbledore may think.

* * *

His chambers look out over the lake, windows charmed into invisibility from the outside, the rippling surface of the water reaching up to inches below the glass. It would not have been his choice; it feels curiously vulnerable, although the rooms are certainly as well-protected as any others in the castle. Still: better to surround himself in stone, to never leave the cool, dark depths of the dungeons. (Dumbledore's twinkling eyes; no, Severus, it will not do. I'm afraid I must insist that you come into contact with daylight on occasion. McGonagall's tiny snort of laughter she thinks that no-one noticed.)

A winding staircase takes him down, emerging directly outside the Slytherin dormitories and perhaps a hundred feet from his classroom and the adjacent office. In the dormitories live the children of many of the families he has so recently betrayed. He is responsible for them; quite laughable, really. Several of them have seen him hanging upside down by his ankle, showing off his oh so attractive underwear; more have seen him hunched in a corner of the common room, seen how he has been tolerated but never loved.

One of the current seventh years was present for that memorable afternoon when Voldemort decided to test curses on him, for want of an actual mu- muggle-born. (After all, Severus, are you not the next best thing? But come; I will purify you. I will make you worthy. He is ashamed to remember how he welcomed it, pain and all. It was in the early days.) Who let a fifteen year old watch that kind of thing? What must the boy have thought? No; he does not, on the whole, look forward to dealing with Avery's younger brother.

* * *

A normal class is, he is quickly learning, awful enough. One cannot lose focus for a second.

"If you are trying to kill us all, then yes, certainly, an excellent effort," he snarls at a third year girl whose name entirely escapes him, banishing the potion before the fumes can do more than give half the class a headache. "You imbecile! Are you incapable of following instructions?"

It is not precisely how he had planned to deal with students, in as much as he has been able to imagine the damned situation at all. (In his vague plans, he never lets them get to him.) But nothing else explodes for the rest of the lesson, which he can only count as a blessing.

* * *

The only positive to the whole mess is that he is too exhausted to avoid sleeping on weekday nights; weekends, on the other hand, become an anxious, sleepless blur. Without the sheer drain of trying to keep class after class of students from dying horribly he is too restless to fall asleep easily, and too prone to nightmares to sleep for long. On these nights he lies awake, waiting for a summons, trying to think about anything but that question: will it be tonight, will it be tomorrow, am I excused for the week? He might cut off his damn arm if he thought it would help. If it wouldn't prove an impediment to brewing. If it wasn't for Dumbledore's price.

He tries instead to think about what he will do once the war is over. When he has, oh, yes - survived. The idea is as laughable as everything else in his wretched life - he has allied himself with what is almost certainly the losing side, ridiculous prophecies notwithstanding. Sooner or later this will become known.

Once he told himself that he might, at his master's pleasure, travel to the continent. He might study the theory of magic and create the kind of spells that no-one had yet dreamt of. Make a name for himself until no-one remembered or cared that no wizard before him had ever been called Snape. But He is rarely pleased, and is always in need of potions, and has Expectations even in other areas. Veritaserum is hardly the worst of it. It is a relief to have other duties, in its way. (You cannot be spared, Severus. Your skill in these areas is unrivalled. Why, I do not believe even the mighty_ Dumbledore_-)

Perhaps one day there will be this kind of travel. German magical research is unparalleled in Europe, he has been told. But it is hard to make himself believe that he will have the opportunity to test it. Imagine that utopian world in which the Dark Lord has fallen; imagine what it will say when the whole sorry story comes out. Why, yes, of course it is true that Severus happens to have the Dark Mark etched onto his arm. Certainly he has killed people. Oh yes, I have been led to believe that he defected purely due to some ridiculous obsession with a woman- oh, they will line up to thank him, won't they.

No. Try again.

Found innocent and even, thanks to Dumbledore's shining assessment of his character, rewarded. A stipend and an Order of Merlin. I'm sorry I doubted you, Sev, Lily says. It doesn't even matter that she stands with her husband and child in a little family unit that doesn't leave space for outsiders. She says sorry and means it. She smiles. Certainly he is grateful for that, but, he says, I don't need anything from you. Just to know you're safe.

He leaves her there and travels and knows she does not hate him and it is, finally, enough.

Yes. It ought to be like that.

(Oh, as if. As if he even deserves Lily's thanks; as if she wasn't right to doubt.)

* * *

To keep himself from screaming with resentment and frustration he uses his first month's pay to subscribe to international journals, potions, magical theory, defence. Thinks that it might be time to improve his German and half-formulates plans that he finds himself too tired to follow through on. Diverts himself from the inanity of first year potions essays with the higher-grade inanity of respected leaders in the field and tells himself over and over that if anyone would ever just give him the chance he could do so much better. This is a fine dream, at least, and so safely abstract that he doesn't have to waste any energy on wondering whether there's any kind of truth to it.

* * *

He knows things are not going well, of course; he is quite aware of his failings as an educator, knows that he would not be good at this job even without the distraction that is playing the part of the rope in an endless tug of war. But he can't stop the feeling of defensiveness that rises in him when he finds the whole thing thrown in his face. As though he is the only less than satisfactory teacher at this ridiculous school; as though everyone else can be said to be perfectly fucking fair.

"Three students this week alone! In tears, Albus, actual tears!" McGonagall is saying, a high, angry edge to her voice. "I simply can't think- quite entirely unsuitable- that is- and his, his background! I don't know why you think you can trust him with students, Albus, but I have to say-"

Standing at the bottom of the staircase, Severus hears Dumbledore's reply only as a low murmur, an indistinct rise and fall that reminds him of nothing so much as his father's radio, the deceptively calm rumble of the shipping forecast filtering up through the floor of his bedroom from the kitchen below. He strains to hear, and feels suddenly a more accute sympathy for the people for whom the shipping forecast is not an abstractly calming recitation but a necessity. He wonders if Dumbledore is defending him or condemning him. Perhaps both.

He's five years old and the grown-ups are fighting over him again. Something about that boy just isn't right, I'm telling you.

No.

He pulls his robes tighter around him, straightens them viciously - takes the stairs with quick, exact steps. The voices falter. He does not need to rap on the door of the headmaster's office; it opens for him.

"Severus," Dumbledore says. "We were just discussing your progress. Do come in." He is offered a seat, a cup of tea, a ginger snap (do be careful with those - this recipe seems a touch more aggressive than the last, I fancy). He stands, keeps his hands from clenching into fists through will alone. Cannot, for all he had resolved himself, find the words of defence he had planned to speak.

"You know you can always turn to any of your colleagues for help in matters of classroom discipline," Dumbledore says. "My door is certainly always open to you," he says. "If you should ever have questions about any aspect of your job..." his eyes twinkle, knowing.

McGonagall's mouth is a hard line. But he does not quite recognise the emotion in her eyes. It's a shade softer than he expected. Unable to understand it, he opts to ignore it.

Gives a small nod, a tight little jerk of the head; all he can manage.

"Certainly. Headmaster."

"Oh, but call me Albus," Dumbledore says. "Come now, we're all friends here."

It will be a cold day in hell, Severus thinks. And isn't it odd, the phrases one remembers. Driftwood from the wreck of another world, no way to stop it washing up. Fuck everything.

* * *

If he had not overheard, would Dumbledore ever have said anything to him? Severus is not sure. Possibly he wouldn't have. He never seems to make much of an effort to involve himself directly in the issue of how classes are taught.

Perhaps it is all according to some higher plan.

He has his own logic, plan or no. Fourth year potions, Slytherin and Hufflepuff. He stalks between the desks, snorts at the efforts of half the class. If he tells Artemis Lestrange that she has no more talent for potions than the average garden toad, will dear aunt Bellatrix curse him the next time they meet? She's never liked him; she would probably relish the opportunity, lack of actual blood ties notwithstanding.

"Turner," he snarls, looking away from Lestrange towards the Hufflepuff side of the classroom, "that is a singularly creative interpretation of _minced_. I look forward to seeing you test the results of your doubtless fascinating experiment at the end of class."

* * *

At the end of September he is summoned and loses an entire weekend to his lordship's pleasure. It is late on Sunday night by the time Dumbledore meets him at the castle doors, steers him upstairs to the headmaster's office. Makes him tea, of course, as though tea might somehow make up for everything else, for the exhaustion so deep that it threatens to make him sick, for the words he has spoken and heard, the things he has seen. The people.

The tea has a calming draught in it. Severus doesn't comment. He can hardly fault Dumbledore's judgement on this point, at any rate.

"I don't know," he says. "I don't know! I can only tell you that I doubt anything good will come of his current mood." He knows something is happening, but no-one is invited to every party, so to speak. But he mistrusts- it is never a good sign when his Lord is in the mood to play with his food, if one must put it delicately.

"We knew that he would not trust you with the most sensitive information when you are placed so close to me," Dumbledore says. "Do not concern yourself. Tell me what you know."

What he knows is not enough. He knows it even then, as he speaks.

Dumbledore listens, serious and still, his hands folded on his lap and his eyes very distant. Severus cannot imagine what he is thinking, feeling. He hardly seems human; this is not an intelligence report, Severus thinks, but a confession of sins to a higher power.

He is far too tired.

* * *

He is not sleeping when it happens; it is late on a Saturday night almost two months after the beginning of term, and he has not even been able to bring himself to go to bed; sits on the cool stone ledge of his windowsill with a book beside him and watches autumn mist moving across the lake in the darkness, blotting out the forest and grounds, eerie, appropriate. He feels certain he will be summoned at any moment. The feeling is a cold weight against his spine, curled snug against his body like the still-living memory of a nightmare, but he cannot explain where it comes from. He tells himself it is paranoia, that he is beginning to crack under the strain; it is not a comforting thought, but he refuses to consider himself a person who has premonitions. That is for- for Trelawney. And her like.

His not-premonition is not quite right. It is violent pain he is waiting for, his arm tense in anticipation he cannot dispel, and he gets it, it claws at him, sharp and savage and- ends.

On his arm the Mark is dead. No trace of movement. A bad tattoo. Faded, as though with extreme age.

He forces himself to walk to Dumbledore's rooms. Not run, not stumble down the corridors in a confusion of panic and elation and terror. Counts out his steps, a measured beat.

"Headmaster," he says. Does not know how to continue. Holds out his arm. They both stare at the greyed lines.

"I do not-" Dumbledore says. Frowns. "I must investigate. Wait in my office, if you please."

* * *

The news breaks. The war ends, at least on paper. He stands trial, not formally before a court of law but in a Ministry office, Dumbledore's hand on his shoulder, Dumbledore's calm and fatherly voice explaining everything while giving away nothing (a most natural change of heart – strength of conviction can hardly be doubted – my utmost confidence). He is neither damned nor rewarded. The school receives a small flood of letters requesting his removal despite the technically confidential nature of the proceedings; the senders' loyalties are, as far as he can tell, evenly split.

He sets longer and longer essays and is increasingly thorough in his marking. Red lines multiply, fill margins, spill over onto new scrolls. Students cower away from him, but talk behind his back.

There is nothing else of note to be said. Things exist which cannot be looked at directly; they can only be observed through careful tricks, mirrors and lenses.

In November there is a funeral. He does not attend.


	2. Chapter 2

**1982**

Winter comes late and slow, with the kind of damp chill that settles under the skin and creeps down into every joint. There are repeated journeys to London for interviews at the Ministry. Can you verify, what is your assessment of, any information at all which might further our search— His words become evidence. So, presumably, do his silences.

Severus can see their suspicion and dislike, and understands this to be the price of his comparative freedom, whatever may have been said before Dumbledore. He attempts to accept it, and finds the task surprisingly easy. He does not, perhaps, have enough fight left in him right now to manage indignation. For the most part, he is simply very tired.

* * *

It is a relief when the first snow falls at the end of January. Severus supervises a Hogsmede weekend, walks reluctantly along the frozen road to the village behind a mass of yelling teenagers and promises himself that if any of them manage to hit him with a snowball they'll be in detention until spring.

"I'm very glad to see you looking better," Flitwick says, bobbing along beside him. He is cocooned in a scarf and a ridiculously bulky coat, which together have the effect of making him unfortunately egg-shaped. "Minerva has been terribly worried, of course."

"Really," Severus grinds out. It is perhaps lucky that there's no sign of Flitwick's neck to be had; strangling him would be satisfying, but then he would be left alone with the students, who are so good at torturing him in ways that the Dark Lord never could have dreamt up. Minerva has been worried? Dumbledore has been gossiping with Minerva about his charming little episode, more like, and Minerva has been dropping hints in the staff room. _Severus is going through a terribly difficult time_. Please. She might as well just laugh at him openly.

"Oh, yes," Flitwick says. "Even I have noticed that you've been looking rather pale. Perhaps you ought to get out more. To work so hard at your age, I mean to say... and all those fumes..."

Severus makes a noncommittal noise in response, and quietly resents the new level of forced solidarity that has been on display lately. Hogwarts staff tend to stand together when the world is looking, but it's clearly a trial in this particular case. Ridiculous. They don't even like him.

* * *

Students do not, generally speaking, come to him for help. On the whole he is inclined to consider this a kind of mercy, although he is aware that Dumbledore cannot approve. For him personally, the main downside is that when one of them finally does come to see him it generally means that the Slytherin common-room is actually engaged in all-out civil war, whether on the topic of blood status or overly explosive exploding snap or whether Timothy Hitchins really is a kleptomaniac. His custodial duty seems, at this point, to consist largely of casting counter-curses and assigning detention – neither of them unsatisfying activities in themselves, but when accompanied by a background of children falling over themselves to accuse each other of diverse petty crimes it gets tiresome.

These are situations that he likes to escape as fast as possible. They are uncomfortable, and he has never had any idea what to do when children start crying.

* * *

He cannot escape Dumbledore. "A game of chess, I thought." A knowing smile. "Perhaps after dinner?"

There cannot possibly be anything to be won by resisting, can there. One might as well give in. "I find myself rather busy this week," he says all the same. "I'm sure you can find someone else to torment." He is not discharged from Dumbledore's bloody secret army, but he has certainly earned a period of leave.

"What a pity," Dumbledore says. "Another time, then."

"Of course," Severus says, rather acid, and retreats before Dumbledore can name any more specific occasion.

* * *

In some respects he misses the shabby little London bedsit he lived in during the war terribly, even the suspect mould in the bathroom and the muggle fridge which kept giving up in the face of magic until he just put a cooling charm on the damn thing and had done with it. He could be called upon at any time, yes, and he cannot claim that old Roderick liked him, precisely, but the man was perfectly happy with Severus' work as an apprentice at least. It had been a short apprenticeship, productive. (He has always learnt quickly.) And no-one wanted him to play chess with them.

On the other hand, no-one wanted him to play chess with them.

It's only another excuse to try and see how he works, he reminds himself, and hates himself for not being entirely convinced. He ought to have learnt by now.

He shuts himself away to brew, in defiance of both Dumbledore and unmarked first year essays alike. Hermanson's work on management of curse pain is interesting, and to his mind suggests several possible improvements to his current formulations. These are things he could have discussed with—but no, that right was lost years ago, and besides—

* * *

In the first week of February the lake freezes solid, a sparkling, pale expanse that throws unfamiliar light across the walls of his rooms, a shock like cold water on the back of the neck.

In the second week there is a stack of parchment on his desk which he certainly didn't leave there.

It might be dangerous, he thinks, and then wants to laugh at himself. Or scream at himself. For one thing, the war is—over, more or less. For another, they are at Hogwarts, which would be an inconvenient sort of place to attack him; much more sensible to wait until the summer and try at his mother's house, at whatever sad lodgings someone is willing to lease to him, on a deserted city street. And finally, the most pertinent point: he has no particular reason to care if it is somehow dangerous.

He picks up the topmost documents, a collection held together with a neatly tied green ribbon. Nothing attacks him. He sighs, and begins an inspection.

The spiky writing is McGonagall's, he realises, leafing through the sheets. Her routines as head of house, elaborations on the school's official marking guidelines (words underlined pointedly,_ a balance of praise and critical evaluation is recommended_), standard detention tasks, notes on recurring discipline problems, all neatly enumerated; she has included subheadings and the occasional footnote, he realises, and her lines are quite perfectly straight. He wants to set the whole lot on fire on the spot. It would make a point, if only to himself. He has survived spying on an increasingly paranoid evil overlord; he has held parts of himself back even from Dumbledore, pointless as that little rebellion might be; has lied convincingly and repeatedly, sometimes under torture. How can it possibly be the case that he cannot persuade a bunch of students to follow basic instructions?

Ten minutes, and the papers are still not burnt - a tribute in and of itself to just how much he hates trying to get the hang of this ridiculous job. But he'll be damned if he's going to use them.

They end up thrown into a desk drawer. He stares critically at them, and moves his boxes of quills and spare ink in on top of them for good measure. With luck he'll manage to upend one of the pots over them.

* * *

"I do not," he mutters between his teeth, lips unmoving, eyes forward, "need your help."

He is coming to loathe McGonagall's way with an eyebrow, but she is at least restrained somewhat by circumstance, he hopes; that is the point of this exercise, after all.

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," she says, not troubling to keep her voice down. At the other end of the table Trelawney, who is presently having her say on whatever it is they are gathered to be opinionated about today, flinches. McGonagall shakes her head, waves for her to continue. Severus, who has only chanced a sidelong glance in her direction, cannot be entirely sure if he imagines the way the corner of her mouth twitches slightly.

"The hell you don't," he says, still low.

"Whatever you say, Severus," she says, and mercifully her voice is no longer pitched to carry. Flitwick shoots them both a curious look anyway. Severus stares back at him as though he has no idea what could possibly be of interest.

"What about you, Severus?" Dumbledore says, effectively cutting off the whole thing before the entire room has time to lose focus. "Anything to add?"

What on earth were they talking about? Quidditch? Or had they moved on. Perhaps. "Oh, no," he drawls. If in doubt, disdain. "I feel the relevant points have been adequately covered by my esteemed colleagues." I feel you're all idiots. I feel I'm an idiot. I feel I would rather be shut in my own fucking dungeon for the next month than have foolish half-informed opinions in front of you all.

"Well," Dumbledore says brightly, completely ignoring his tone. "I believe that's that, then, and I wish you all a fine weekend. I will of course consider the matter and inform you of my decision on Monday."

Severus half expects McGonagall to take issue with him under cover of the general movement towards the door, but she just shakes her head at him and lets him stalk away.

* * *

Instead it is Dumbledore who accosts him, just when he's almost made it back to his rooms.

"Severus," he says. "Join me."

Oh, well; it's far easier to give in to such an obvious command without complaint than it is to accept an invitation. "Of course," Severus says. Walks very straight beside Dumbledore, who leads the way to his private rooms.

The place is a mess of obscenely soft armchairs covered in purple, silver-starred fabric, of heavy curtains, soft carpets. It is, just like Dumbledore, too much. And Severus in the middle of it, as out of place as one can be, colourless and formless in old black robes. As visual humour goes the joke is no doubt effective, although he isn't sure whose expense it may be at.

"Tea," Dumbledore says, matter of fact, and catches Severus' sceptical expression. "There is nothing more sinister than bergamot in it today, I promise you."

The cups are huge rounded things, violently patterned with flowers and bees and abstract lines that don't seem inclined to stay still; they are quite possibly designed just to induce migraines in the unwary observer. But the tea is good.

Dumbledore settles deep in a chair, arranges his robes around himself. "I trust you are finding Minerva's notes useful."

His fingers tighten around the cup, though it's too hot. Oh, he will slip and drop arsenic in that woman's firewhiskey one day. "Taken together they're certainly a very practical doorstop," he says, unavoidably snide.

Dumbledore looks at him over his spectacles, piercing, and Severus finds himself compelled to glance away.

"There is no shame whatsoever," Dumbledore says, "in accepting help from a senior colleague." The reproach is obvious.

"I am quite capable," Severus begins, low, and trails off, feels how his face wants to flush. Oh, yes, he is capable of many things. That's rather the problem.

"It is not a question of capability," Dumbledore says, still studying Severus closely. "Nor, for that matter, is it a question of charity, if that is what you are afraid of. It is quite simply a question of making use of all that is available to you. If you cannot believe in Minerva's concern for your best interests," he says, "you might try to believe in her concern for the best interests of the school." He sighs. Severus does not believe that he imagines the heavy note of disappointment. It is unbearable.

His hands might shake, if they were not occupied. Damn Dumbledore. Damn him.

"If there is something you require of me," he snaps, "I would appreciate it if you would give me an order. I may be a mind reader but I have begun to find that particular role rather tiring."

"Ah," Dumbledore says brightly, and damn him, damn him, damn him but he is smiling again. "There, you see. I had hoped that Severus Snape was still in there somewhere. No, my dear boy, this was simply a friendly reminder that one ought not allow pride to interfere with learning."

Dear boy indeed. (You disgust me.)

He has half a mind to resort to sarcasm again, but before he can find words Dumbledore rises, ignoring the series of emotions that Severus is quite sure play across his face, and walks to the mantelpiece, where he deposits his tea-cup with its nauseating swirl of colours and patterns among a chaotic collection of curiosities. It is not, Severus notes, the only cup up there. And there is another on a spindly table by the door. Does the man leave half empty teacups everywhere he goes?

"I feel it would be as well for you to know that I will be away until Sunday evening," Dumbledore says, addressing the words towards the curtains hanging some meter to the right of Severus' chair. "I urge you, however, to contact me by owl should any crisis arise."

"Of course," Severus says flatly. They are both aware that he will do no such thing for anything less than the return of the Dark Lord. But at least the forms have been observed.

"Very well then," Dumbledore says. "I shan't detain you longer."

"Quite," Severus says, and rises less gracefully than he might wish.

* * *

In theory, life is easier now; he has only one job, for a start, Ministry interviews aside. In practice he isn't even sure how it is. There are weeks he can look back on and not remember a single detail from. He can know that he has done things, set work and given out detention – can read his own notes and summon the memories back. But without a prompt he could not say a thing about what any given day has been like.

It will soon be spring.

He finds, to his irritation, that McGonagall's notes are extremely helpful for managing his duties as head of house. It is not precisely a substitute for competence, but one cannot, apparently, be good at everything.

* * *

To the list of things he is not good at, an addition: chess.

He has always enjoyed chess in theory; the kind of thing one ought to be good at. It has a certain brutal elegance.

It is also about the big picture.

"Daring," Dumbledore says lightly as Severus' gaze lingers on his queen. There is laughter in his voice, and Severus shoots him a sharp look, inspects the rest of the board to try and see exactly what it is that is so amusing. It is, of course, no good; he cannot follow all of Dumbledore's leaps, and nor can the rather enthusiastic pieces that have apparently been borrowed for him from Poppy Pomfrey. His own are buried goodness knows where at Spinner's End, and would not be a great deal of help in any case.

Besides, he himself is more a playing-piece than anything. He goes where he is directed. (This has emotional truth but is not a strictly accurate reflection of reality. Still.)

He loses quickly three times in a row, becomes irritable. Dumbledore is so unnervingly jovial that it feels suspect; he spends the whole evening uneasily waiting for some new demand to appear, and goes back to his bed in angry confusion when it never does.

* * *

The first half-warm day, melt-water dripping from the castle walls, the lake still sluggish and dark despite the sun, McGonagall wears a crimson hat at the breakfast table. "Are you ready to see Slytherin crushed again?"

Ah. Is that the date? Already?

"Entirely," he snaps, and reaches for the coffee. He has not slept well, which is usual, and any hope of a peaceful Saturday in the company of a book and a Headache Potion is disappearing fast.

"Well, really," McGonagall says sharply. "How am I meant to gloat, in that case? Try again, young man."

He stares at her blankly. She is, inexplicably, smiling – a wry little thing which is only a hint on her lips, but that crinkles the corners of her eyes.

"Oh," he says, with a certain sarcasm, "you are utterly delusional if you believe for one moment that your little team stands a chance. In your position I should count myself blessed if none of them fall off their brooms. Is that more the sort of thing, or would you prefer I pass comment on your dress sense as well?"

Her mouth twitches. "That will do quite nicely to begin with, Severus. I would _hate_," she says, buttering her toast meticulously, "for you to strain anything."

* * *

He accompanies her to the match, and sits stiffly in the staff box, feeling cold even in the sun. It is of course his duty to be here as head of house, at least when it is in any way feasible, but one can interpret 'in any way feasible' flexibly—certainly one could during the war, at least.

Apparently he is now expected to do his official job properly.

He does, at least, have the satisfaction of smirking at McGonagall when Slytherin win, 230-30. "Excuse me, I really must offer my congratulations to my team on their victory."

He has a feeling she is gloating anyway, despite her sharp expression. But he really does go to congratulate the astonished Slytherin house team. He cannot think of any particularly pressing reason not to.

* * *

"I'm sure you'll help a distressed woman forget her pain," McGonagall says at dinner. "Ordinarily I would share a drink with Albus but he has of course been terribly busy, and I'm afraid that Filius… well..."

Severus, remembering the Christmas of his seventh year, nearly winces.

But yes, certainly Albus is busy. The mess that is the Ministry, Lucius Malfoy, Memorial services and ongoing trials. Just now it is Karkaroff – a singularly pathetic specimen, but still. Enough to keep anyone busy for several lifetimes (and you're one to talk, Severus). It is a wonder he finds time to bother his Potions Master at all. Apparently he is more than capable of doing so, though, even in his absence.

"And Poppy, as you well know, is quite puritanical," McGonagall adds briskly. Severus can feel his escape routes being systematically closed off.

"And why on earth," he snaps, "would you subject yourself to the company of a bad-tempered boy who you have always found trying, with or without alcohol?"

She stares him down, lips pursed, and for an insane moment he is horribly afraid that she will say something kind. But she just raises an eyebrow and turns back to her dinner.

"It is always so very interesting to be informed of one's own opinions," she observes. "Very well, Severus, go and sit in your corner and feel hard done by for as long as you wish."

"Thank you," he says. "I rather think I shall."

McGonagall snorts.

* * *

The entire Quidditch episode seems to have improved his standing with the Slytherin team. That a few words should go so far is curious, but he has no doubt that there has been a material effect: if there is one thing he is truly attuned to at this point it is the emotional atmosphere of a room. To read people on this level is not even a conscious effort, not true Legilimency but rather an acquired sensitivity (thank you, my Lord, and your vicious mood-swings). The mood of the Slytherin common room is beginning, very slowly, to swing – becoming very slightly less sullen. It is a marginal difference, but far more than he had hoped for, in a group of students where a significant proportion now have family members in Azkaban and the rest are desperate to avoid being suspected of such associations.

He will take it.

* * *

It is just as well, as it turns out. "In two weeks' time, heads of house will be expected to give careers advice to all fifth year students in their house," Dumbledore says. "I leave the schedules to your individual discretion, but remind you that interviews should be expected to take at least fifteen minutes and may require considerably longer."

* * *

While Severus could certainly write a book on the topic of career choices, it would be a cautionary one.

Several of his fifth years are, lamentably, not entirely unaware of this fact.

"And if I wanted to join the forces of darkness," Miranda Richardson says, looking at him from under her long dark fringe, "what should I think about then? Sir."

Obliviating yourself. Muggle psychiatric help. Cutting out the intermediate step and turning directly to alcoholism and regret.

"Being less flippant about things you do not understand, to begin with," Severus says, low and vicious. "Do not play games with me, Richardson, and do not make jokes about things that could get you arrested. Try again."

Richardson looks surprised for a moment, and quickly refocuses on her hands. "Er," she says. "I thought maybe I'd take Ancient Runes, but I don't know if it'd be useful for anything."

He hides a sigh, and shuffles McGonagall's apparently infinite collection of leaflets. "We shall see. What other subjects do you feel you have a talent for?"

* * *

There are only eleven of them, he reminds himself. Imagine if you had to do this for all seven years. (No, don't imagine it.)

Christopher May forgets the time of his appointment, and then forgets the time of his make-up appointment too. Oppius von Essen wishes to study "something easy", and finds the word 'Career' distasteful. Winifred Oakley comes prepared with a colour-coded chart and a ten year plan for her political career which she would, for some godforsaken reason, like his approval for.

Meera Krisko is not in the mood to talk, and their interview can more accurately be characterised as a staring match. But with thirty seconds to go before Severus has resolved to throw her from his office she shifts suddenly in her chair.

"There should be a NEWT in Magical Theory," she says irritably, arms crossed in front of her. "Or all the other subjects should be better at it. It's rubbish. And I don't know why everything's got to be about Britain. Like no-one else ever did anything interesting." But with nothing more to offer, she settles on Potions, Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, Alchemy if available and, oddly, Muggle Studies. She is a keen student, he knows, and is presumably destined to carry out groundbreaking research which will turn the wizarding world upside down. He tries not to hate her for it. He does, at least, look forward to having her in his class for another two years; she is one of the few bright spots in a dismal teaching schedule.

* * *

"All done, I trust?" McGonagall asks in the staff lounge that evening.

"Certainly," Severus says sharply. "I am quite sure I have damaged eleven promising young lives forever and given entirely inappropriate advice to everyone, so it must be counted a successful day's work."

The sarcasm falls rather flat to his ears, primarily because of his underlying conviction that it may very well be true.

"But none of them cried," some damnable impulse drives him to add as an afterthought, "so I could perhaps have tried harder after all."

The look he receives is deeply suspicious. "I am almost inclined to suspect you of humour, poor though it may be," McGonagall says. "Am I to assume that you are in fact young Miss Richardson under the effects of Polyjuice, out to discover the dark secrets of the faculty? Ought I refrain from offering you a glass," she gestures at the bottle which typically accompanies her on Friday nights, "for fear of suspension?"

"Now that is a prospect that might induce me to accept a drink," Severus says.

There is something of a pause, but McGonagall does actually laugh, rather disbelievingly.

Just for that, he does take a finger of firewhiskey before retreating, although he drinks rarely. Alcohol is, he finds, altogether too appealing. He doubts he would drink like McGonagall, a measure of spirit on a Friday night and two when there's something to celebrate, an occasional burst of companionable drunkenness at Christmas or at the end of term and then back to business.

* * *

Late at night there are few defences against oneself.

This feeling can be named, he knows. He does not want to name it, to give it form. That is in itself to inspect the whole thing too closely. But it is worse after a good week, an accusation. How dare he have the effrontery to find life occasionally amusing, to forget, however briefly—those things which need not be named.

There is nothing to do with nights like this but endure them. Eventually it is morning, and he may walk stiffly from his rooms and leave this part of himself securely bound there, thoughts of the wretched Potter boy and all the rest of it excised. Sit at the staff table and talk to no-one, shielded by his bad personality.

* * *

One may patrol the corridors; there is a schedule for nights on which one is required to do so, but Severus, who finds Sleeping Draughts increasingly inefficient, finds that it is soothing to move through the silent castle. Despite everything, his memory of being a student here is still fresh enough in his mind to make it satisfying to walk softly past Filch and receive nothing more than an abrupt nod. From the students, the reaction is considerably more dramatic.

"I swear," he overhears von Essen hissing to a friend at lunch, having been caught at the bottom of the steps to Ravenclaw Tower the night before, "he doesn't make a bit of noise, he's like a vampire or something. Scared the shit out of me. I thought I was going to die."

"You would've if McGonagall'd caught you," his friend murmurs back. "I'm telling you, she's the real bloodsucker here."

Just this once, Severus decides, he can afford to be selectively deaf. Goodness knows he wouldn't be the first.

* * *

Some days it is almost as though he is—not happy, precisely, but actually in control. The theory was always that if he pretended for long enough it would eventually pay off. There is no flare of panic when a class is restive; he reacts to the frequent potions accidents with automatic efficiency and cool bad temper but no real feeling. He can sit with his colleagues and not watch them for signs of disgust.

But he is very tired still, all the same.

* * *

"You know," McGonagall says, "I became a professor when I was around the same age as you. Although certainly not head of house. That is rather… well, I am not certain it was fair, but it could be going far worse."

From her this is practically praise. Severus waits, cautious.

"You might, of course," she adds, seeing that he is not ready to react just yet, "try a little more understanding for students of _other_ houses."

He eyes her. "If this is about the Hufflepuff third years—"

The look she gives him back is inscrutable. "While putting an entire year in detention is certainly irregular… no, Severus, this is about smaller things. I would be glad if you would think about how it is you treat people."

He is not sure, really, that he understands. But the conversation is too uncomfortable for him to want to continue it.

* * *

May brings a sudden owl from the Ministry requiring his presence. He is still, officially, of interest to the Ministry – which is not the same as being a suspect, but carries many of the same restrictions and demands. Still, there has been little contact from them since spring came, and he does not expect the missive, is not entirely prepared to be questioned.

He does not expect the last question, dropped casually at the end of an exhausting conversation in which no new information is requested but old information is rehashed: "Your mother, by the way – she's well?"

"My mother," he says, "is nothing to do with this conversation."

But he knows. The so-called cleanup in the aftermath of the war has been huge, and for want of more big names, people with loose connections to the Dark Lord are pulled in.

He is glad, suddenly, that he has no idea where Eileen Snape is; there is no way the information can be teased from him. She is not a Death Eater, certainly, but if she saw an Auror she would almost certainly curse them on principle. He would like to curse several right now himself, for asking the damn question, for making him think about family. But he is calm and polite and gets out of the damn building as fast as he can without looking so suspicious they might feel compelled to call him back.

* * *

That evening he accepts another drink from McGonagall. He suspects that she might have gone to school with Eileen Prince, although not in the same year, and certainly not the same house; he wonders if they ever noticed each other, what they might have thought. He will certainly never ask.

He has his mother's stories of Hogwarts, but few of them about people; usually they were about statues and paintings and plates that refilled themselves until you were full. Just like magic. There was a story, just one, about a handsome boy several years above her in Slytherin, who seemed to know everything, who everyone loved. Who saved the school once. His mother really had adored Tom Riddle. Severus had adored him, too, in the stories. To be quick and clever and adored. A secret ambition.

He is rather afraid that the alcohol is making him maudlin; is forced to excuse himself, and spends the rest of the night sitting at his window, watching the lake. It has become comfortingly familiar, in all its moods.

He hopes that Eileen is happy, wherever she ran off to when the war was at its worst.

* * *

From Dumbledore, absent again in parts unknown, an owl, swooping in through the windows of the Great Hall at breakfast. Severus' hands want to tremble as he takes it, as though they had a mind of their own. What can have—perhaps the boy—the Dark Lord—an escape from Azkaban—

He slits the envelope neatly open with unhurried movements, in defiance of instinct.

Inside, a card, glitter-covered and lurid, shows a statue of a man in full military dress, located in—he flips the card over—Vienna. The contrast between photograph and decoration is entirely baffling.

In Dumbledore's hand:_ I saw this and thought of you_. Nothing else.

He stares.

"Gracious," McGonagall says, coming in to take her seat. "Have you been honoured this time? Allow me to officially welcome you to the staff."

Sometimes he thinks he will spend most of the rest of his life staring uncomprehendingly at his fellow staff members, waiting for the world to start making sense again. So far it has yet to do so.

"Oh," Flitwick says brightly, noticing the card still held fastidiously between Severus' thumb and forefinger. "Let's see, what is it this time? Oh, not a bad effort—although I doubt anything will top Florence."

"No indeed," McGonagall agrees, rather too significantly.

Severus opts to ignore them, and hunts out a quill.

_What_, he writes on the back of the envelope, _am I to conclude from this ludicrous display?_

"Oh, dear," says Murchison (Muggle Studies), passing by on her way out of the hall. "I'm afraid he always does this. You'll have to ask Filius to show you the collection, if you've the stomach for it. I think he's going easy on you, though, to be honest. The things muggles put on postcards, you wouldn't believe."

* * *

_Sometimes_, Dumbledore owls back,_ a man with a pleasant behind is simply a man with a pleasant behind_. Severus makes a futile resolution to never ask questions again. He is not charmed by Dumbledore's cheeky old man act; he is not interested in being friends with him. He has no intention of forgetting that he is a tool.

Sometimes, though, he would like to; to just take the eccentric friendliness that is offered, and not worry about why.

* * *

When Dumbledore returns to the castle, just in time for final exams, it is as the tactician, not the fool; "Severus, a word in my office."

Severus follows in silence.

Inside, Dumbledore studies him gravely. "I think it may be time for us to discuss the terms of your summer employment," he says.

Severus does not say: what summer employment? He does not say: I rather fancied I might have some time to myself for once.

He swore he would do anything.

"What would you have me do," Severus says.

There is a long silence.

"As you know," Dumbledore says, "we cannot be certain what has become of Voldemort, which leaves us in a vulnerable position. I do not propose to have you search every abandoned ruin in Europe," he adds, noting Severus' expression, "but I would suggest that periods of study—of exchange—with Europe's many fine research institutions might prove, shall we say, illuminating."

"You are proposing," Severus says, loses all his words. "That is to say—you mean to suggest—"

"That you might do very well to devote your summers to the improvement of you already considerable skills, and, entirely incidentally, take note of anything which may seem, shall we say, peculiar. This is, as I am sure you have surmised, precisely what I myself do with any time I can spare."

As well as taking note of statues of men with pleasant behinds, Severus thinks, helplessly, inevitably.

He is—staring. He cannot think of a single thing to say. He does not dare to think that it is real, it cannot be, that he should be permitted—the Ministry would not—

"Severus," Dumbledore says, shockingly gentle, "it is not my intention to make you suffer unnecessarily, whatever may have passed between us during the war. Please do understand that."

And that's why you hold me in this damned teaching position, I'm sure. Entirely necessary suffering. But he cannot say it aloud, much as he wishes.

"If this is only pity," Severus begins, harsh, swallows hard. "I will not permit you to—to invent work to make me feel useful."

He has not dreamed of this since before the end of the war. To think of it is like—like tearing the scab from a wound. Awful, irresistible. A moment of temptation that he will pay for.

"Now you flatter yourself," Dumbledore says. "I am not in the habit of petitioning the ministry to grant travel permits for persons of relevance to ongoing investigations simply out of pity. The ability to follow up on rumours in two places at once may very well prove invaluable."

Severus permits himself, at last, to sink slowly into a chair.

"Pear drop?" Dumbledore says.

* * *

Severus Snape sits, blinking in the bright early summer sun that streams in through the window of his sitting room. Around him, journals and books and scrawled notes in untidy piles, newly dislodged into fresh constellations, the dust raised from their covers sparkling like gold in the air. In his hands, a plain little scroll, _Severus Snape, for the period of June 30th to August 15th 1982, to be granted permission to travel via international portkey from any Ministry-approved location in the British Isles_. He is trembling lightly, though it shows only in the movement of the little roll of parchment that he clutches.

Whether it is with suppressed laughter or tears even he can hardly say.

[fin]

* * *

_End notes: The title is from the poem Under Pressure by Tomas Tranströmer._

_The blue sky's engine-drone is deafening.  
We're living here on a shuddering work-site  
where the ocean depths can suddenly open up  
shells and telephones hiss.  
- Tranströmer, Under Pressure_


End file.
